


Leave Me In the Mountains

by Carrieosity



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Human, Angst with a Happy Ending, Appalachia, Child Abuse, Child Neglect, Childhood Friends, Coal mining communities, Coming Out, Doctor Dean, Loss of Parent(s), M/M, Marriage of Convenience, Miscommunication, Misunderstandings, Mutual Pining, Teen Pregnancy, West Virginia, Writer Castiel, deancaspinefest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-16
Updated: 2017-02-16
Packaged: 2018-09-24 02:23:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 19,806
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9695540
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Carrieosity/pseuds/Carrieosity
Summary: Childhood best friends Dean and Castiel dreamed of growing up and leaving their small, rural West Virginia town. Dean wanted to change the world; Cas just wanted desperately to escape. When an selfless but impulsive decision comes at the expense of Castiel’s dreams, long-kept secrets threaten to pull them apart for good.





	1. Where I often wandered lonely, And the future tried to cast

**Author's Note:**

> This was written for the 2017 Dean/Cas Pinefest! Been wanting to set something in West Virginia; I grew up in western Maryland, which is culturally closer to WV than it is to MD, and I went to college there. (Go, Mountaineers!) The mining culture is a fascinating part of history, bloody and dramatic, and along with the strong Irish and Scotch-Irish roots of the people who live there, it shaped a culture built on stubborn independence and loyalty to kin. (Seriously, go read up on the West Virginia Coal Wars, if you have a free afternoon. It's amazing how few people know about what went down.)
> 
> Big thanks to my beta readers, [captainhaterade](https://captainhaterade.tumblr.com/) and [deanisthebeesknees](https://deanisthebeesknees.tumblr.com/), and especially to [peanutbutterthenjelly](https://peanutbutterthenjelly.tumblr.com/), whose gorgeous art graces this story. Seriously, she nailed the rural setting perfectly, and I love it.
> 
> Chapter titles are taken from the words of the state song, "West Virginia Hills."

 

_Prologue_

There were fresh, clean sheets on the narrow bed taking up most of the space in the center of the room; the smell of bleach still rose faintly from them when the man in the bed shifted. He shifted only rarely. The soft click and hum of an oxygen concentrator created a rhythm that was almost soothing in its regularity, but it had long since faded into the background of awareness. No other sounds, other than the soft turning of pages and the occasional scratch of a pen nearly out of ink, disturbed the quiet.

The man in the bed was dying. Nobody cared.

Well, that's not quite accurate, thought the man sitting in the corner chair with a small huff. Dramatic fancies getting the better of me. Writer's curse – have to make things sound harsher than they are. He glanced at the sleeping man in the bed. He was definitely dying; nobody denied that. If nobody cared, though, the sheets would not be white and tucked neatly in at the corners. Certainly, the dying man would not have arranged for his own oxygen tanks, or the pain medication which was keeping him in his unconscious state more often than not. Perhaps somebody cared, after all. The man in the chair just wasn't quite sure why he did.

"You'd never have said 'thank you,'" he murmured into the silence. "There's a good reason why the others aren't here right now. Do you even know that they chose not to be?" Click, hum. He rolled his eyes at himself and turned back to his notebook once more.

A knock came at the door, startling him as it broke the peace. Glancing at the clock, the man realized it was later than he'd thought. Time seemed to move in spurts and stops, marked by necessary tasks on the checklist left by the home healthcare worker. "Doctor's here," he murmured. "No, don't get up, Dad; I'll get the door." Smirking humorlessly, he rose, setting aside his pen. These visits were always short; before the patient had declined to the point of being unable to make his own medical decisions, he had unequivocally stated that he just wanted to be comfortable. No more tests, no more procedures. "Let me rest," he'd said, as though he'd led a good life that warranted such a reward at the end.

The house was tiny; it only took seven steps to cross from the corner of the room to the front door. Seven steps, and the man was opening the front door, already greeting the doctor. "Glad you made it up, the ice is really –"

Sound died. Time stopped. The face staring at him from the other side of the open door was neither the wrinkled, weary face of the country doctor he had come to expect, nor the fresh-faced hospice resident who occasionally came instead. He took in smooth, lightly freckled cheeks, felt stunned by sparkling green eyes that were framed by slight crow's feet that hadn't been there the last time he'd gazed into them, so many years before. They were blown wide now.

"Cas?" rasped the young man holding the medical bag in his gloved hand. "I…is that you?"

Time started again, and Castiel tried to remember how to breathe.

* * *

 

_Act I, Scene I_

June, 1998

The new town had one gas station, two churches (one Catholic, one for everybody else, and God help you if you didn't make an effort to show up at least a few times a year), a barebones grocery store, and one school, divided into two buildings that housed the grade school and the high school. It also, of course, contained Mine Number Eight of the coal mining company that had hired John Winchester, much to the quiet relief of his wife. Mary had begun to reach the ends of her abilities to creatively "make do" for a family of four on skimpy unemployment checks. Coal was king in West Virginia, so as long as John could remain in the good graces of his union bosses, the family could stop searching for bare leather to pierce on ever-tightening belts.

Dean, of course, knew none of that. At nine years old, he was small for his age, but not much more so than many of the other boys growing up around him. Like his mother, Dean was also creative, and he'd found methods to charm his way into treats and goodies from grownups who were suckers for devilish grins and mischievous sparkles in green eyes. Naturally, many of those treats were promptly pocketed and brought back home to his little brother, who at six years was still too young to wander the streets making friends with the neighbors. Dean was more than happy to share, especially when Sam ran to him and threw his arms around Dean's legs in tight hugs the moment he came home.

Their new rental house was tiny, but it was located in a cluster of other tiny houses built near the mine. Generations ago, the houses had been built and owned by the mining company, rented to workers who were paid not in cash but in scrip, but time and labor laws had improved living conditions somewhat. Dean didn't know anything about mining history; he simply knew that lots of nearby houses meant two things: a strong likelihood of other families with kids, and an even stronger likelihood of surrogate mothers who would report on any misbehavior to his own mom. So, good and bad. He would simply have to be creative again.

On the first morning after moving in, before his mother could corral him into helping supervise Sam while more boxes could be unpacked, Dean slipped out the back door into their tiny yard. No fences separated one property from another here, and Dean easily slipped from one yard into the next, until he found his way to the winding, poorly-maintained road away from the mine. Curves around hills quickly obscured the view of his house, and Dean grinned happily. He hadn't particularly wanted to move, but he certainly loved the feel of exploration, finding new hiding spots and tramping grounds. The late summer sun warmed his back, and he decided that the first thing he needed to locate was a creek. Creeks and rivers were always somewhere in the valleys around mines; he scanned for any downward slopes and listened for trickling sounds.

Inside half an hour, Dean was perched on a flat rock jutting over a moderate-sized creek. His cuffs were rolled up over his ankles so he could hang his bare feet in the cool water, and he was thinking idly that he'd have to get up early to dig for fishing worms. Contemplating which of the tiny eddies in the creek were possibly fish, it took his mind a while to notice that he was not alone. He glanced at the opposite bank and saw a pair of legs dangling from a tree branch, which startled him into an aborted yelp and splash as he jerked in alarm.

Jumping to his feet, he stared at the other figure, now watching him with caution. The shadows of the tree obscured details, but he could now see that it was a boy, probably about his own age. His feet were bare as well, though the dirt and scratches littering his lower legs indicated that the other boy might have traveled here that way instead of having slipped off his footwear upon arrival. His torso was draped over another branch in front of him, but his fingers were gripping the bark tightly; he appeared ready to jump from the tree and bolt. Dean's own shock had faded quickly, and he wondered why the other kid still looked nervous, particularly in light of how he'd obviously seen Dean before Dean had seen him.

"Hey," he said, giving a small wave and a smile. "I'm new. Nice place." He gestured at the water. "Good fishing here?"

The boy shrugged. He didn't even seem to blink.

Dean frowned a little. This wasn't something that happened often; usually, people he met easily returned the sociable overtures he gave. He didn't have much experience in needing to try to make friends.

"My name's Dean," he continued. "What's yours?"

More silence. Just as Dean began to wonder if there was something actually wrong with the kid, preventing him from speaking or hearing or communicating at all, the boy quietly said something. The sound of the words was eaten by the rustle of tree leaves and the gurgling of the creek.

"What was that? Couldn't hear you." Dean leaned out a little over the water, as though getting a few inches closer would allow him to understand the softly-spoken name. When the boy spoke again, though, Dean was no more able to hear him than before.

"Hang on, gimme a second," muttered Dean. Yanking his cuffs a little higher on his legs, he stepped off the rock, hoping the creek didn't have a sudden drop-off in the middle. Thankfully, it was relatively shallow all the way across, and only the bottom few inches of his jeans were soaked when he stepped out onto the other side. The boy didn't move at all from his perch, watching Dean approach him with wide eyes.

"There, that's better." Dean nodded in satisfaction, looking around until he spotted another nearby rock on which to flop. "Now, let's try it again. I'm Dean. What's your name."

"Castiel," the boy said.

"Whoa, that's different. Never heard that name before. You foreign or something?" There wasn't a lot of diversity in the small mining towns of West Virginia; Dean had been six before he had first met someone whose skin was a different shade from his own. "Foreign" was a word that tasted strange in his mouth, but he found the idea an exciting one. "Are you from another country?"

The boy tilted his head to the side, looking confused. "No," he said. "I'm from here."

"Then what's with the weird name?" Dean realized, belatedly, that he was being rude, and he flushed a little. "It's nice, though," he amended. "Bet you're the only one in the class with it. Only one in the whole school! They never have to stick an initial after it to figure out who the teacher's talking to."

"It's okay," the boy said. "I know it's weird. I'm used to it." He looked guarded, though, despite his reassurance. Dean didn't like that. He wanted to see the other boy smile back.

"Hey, it's not like we name ourselves," he said. "Having a weird name doesn't make you weird." Okay, that wasn't any better, and now the boy was looking even more uncomfortable. Dean needed to fix this now. "What if I call you Cas? That's a cool name, right?"

Confusion painted Castiel's face. "Why?"

"Why what?"

"Why would you be calling me?"

"Because…" Dean was struggling. This was a very strange meeting, but he was too stubborn to back away now. Besides, he was sort of enjoying the sound of Cas's voice. It was deeper than he had expected, coming from such a small body. It reminded him of echoes and bullfrogs. "Because that's what friends do, okay? And I'm new, and I want to be friends."

"Why?"

Now Dean was really stumped. "What do you mean, why?" He stood up and walked closer to the tree. He didn't miss the slight flinch in Cas's shoulders as he did, so he stopped before he got too near. "Haven't you ever done this before? Met new people? Made new friends?"

"New people, yes," Cas said, peering down at him. "Friends…not really."

And that was just about the saddest thing Dean had ever heard. It was worse because Cas hadn't even sounded all that unhappy about it – just resigned, as though it hadn't occurred to him that things could ever be different.

"Okay," he said. "Well, then, you'll just have to believe me. Friends give each other nicknames. I'm going to be your friend, and I'm calling you Cas." His grin was determined, and he held out his hand in a manner that conveyed his confidence in the arrangement.

Cas stared at him for a few heavy moments. Then, shrugging and pursing his lips a little, he lifted his arms and swung his body under the upper branch, sliding between the two limbs to the ground. Dean winced a little as Cas's bare feet crunched heavily on the rocky and twig-blanketed ground, but Cas must have had soles like leather for all the reaction he showed. He stepped closer to Dean and reached out to complete the handshake with a firmness of grip that Dean didn't expect, based on their interaction so far. He also didn't expect to be pinned in steady regard by the bluest eyes he'd ever seen in his life. For a moment, he was at a loss for words.

Cas finally broke the silence. "Your eyes are very green," he said, releasing Dean's hand from what had become an oddly prolonged handshake. "I like green things."

The moment over, Dean shook his head to clear it. "Must be why you're hanging out in the trees, huh?" He chuckled at himself.

Cas turned and walked to the edge of the water. "It's quiet here." He trailed his fingers in the creek, watching bubbles rise around them. "Nobody else comes here." There seemed to be more behind that simple statement than was said out loud, but nothing more seemed forthcoming.

"Good," said Dean. "Then it can be ours."

\---

By the time summer ended and school was beginning, Dean and Cas were inseparable. Cas's initial reserve turned out to be an intrinsic part of his character, but Dean quickly became an expert in interpreting the slight changes in posture and facial expressions that indicated his friend's feelings. Cas turned out to have a devilishly quick wit, which he displayed in such subtle ways that it initially would take Dean long minutes to catch on and react. Once Dean began to understand Cas better, the pair of them became flatly dangerous. The banter, the joking, the adventures, and the conspiring filled the days with the sort of excitement that made the neighbors nervous.

"Nah, the sheet's plenty big enough! It'll catch more than enough air under it to be a good parachute!"

"There wouldn't be enough time for it to slow you down, Dean. You'd need to jump from something higher than the roof. Maybe the big oak tree would work."

(Luckily, Sam had been eavesdropping that time, and he ran to tell Mary before Dean could actually climb high enough to test the theory.)

Both boys somehow managed to make it to the start of school with all limbs intact and a surprisingly low number of scrapes and bruises. There was only one fourth grade classroom, headed by a brand new teacher, fresh from college and with an accent that screamed of Pittsburgh. It took less than half a day for her to realize that the boys would need to be seated apart from each other in order to maintain structure in the classroom. It took the rest of the day to realize that separating them wouldn't be enough. Dean and Cas didn't need to be next to each other to work mischief together. She capitulated with a wry chuckle to herself, thanking heaven that all their wild ideas were good-natured and done in fun.

"But Miss Barnes, it's for science!"

"We worked hard to get it here!"

"I appreciate that, but please take the snake outside again, right now? And please don't bring live animals into school without asking – especially not in grocery bags!"

A month into the school year found Dean vibrating with excitement in the backseat of the family car as they drove to school for "meet the teacher" night. John was driving, having gruffly argued, "What, am I supposed to eat a cold sandwich by myself while you all go? Besides, they sometimes have cookies at these things." (Mary just smiled, accepting a version of the logic that didn't mention how her quiet whispers that boys do better in school when both parents get involved.) Dean wanted Miss Barnes to see his parents and his brother, and he wanted to show off his work hanging proudly on the walls.

Mothers and fathers circulated around the room, smiling proudly as their sons and daughters pointed at classroom centers and activities. The teacher shook hands with each parent, murmuring a few words of praise here, whispering a few concerns there. While Mary and John examined the crayoned family portraits on the wall, Dean noticed that Cas was absent. He frowned, trying to remember whether they'd talked about seeing each other that night. Looking for Cas's portrait among the rest, he couldn't find it anywhere.

As he concentrated, the buzz of a conversation nearby broke into his awareness with the mention of a familiar name. "…Novak family, of course." He turned his head and saw another mother talking quietly with Miss Barnes, head bowed in a manner that spoke of both concern and divulgence. The woman's mouth turned down in a sad frown, but Dean thought she didn't look very nice. "Rebecca never comes to these things," she was saying. "You might try sending home a note, but…" She sighed and shrugged.

"I was really hoping to speak with her, though," Miss Barnes said. "Castiel is a good student, but there were just a few concerns I've been having, and…"

"Oh, we all have our concerns," the woman said. "If concerns could change anything, I'm sure things would be very different in that house."

Miss Barnes narrowed her eyes. "Is there something I should know? I realize that I'm new here, and I don't know all the families yet, but…is everything all right there?"

The woman pinched her lips and thought for a moment before answering. "Everyone has their own burdens, and the Novaks just seem to have a bigger burden than most. Some of it's bad luck, and some of it just comes down to blood. Rebecca was a good girl, but she always did go for the wrong boys. Her daddy would have needed more than a shotgun to keep 'em away, but he barely tried, and now she's learning her lesson." More than a hint of judgment came through in her voice. "Now she's got a herd of her own boys, and they're pretty well raising themselves, for all she works to keep 'em fed and tended to. It's chaos up there, make no mistake."

"But that's terrible," the teacher murmured, biting her lip and frowning in thought. "It was pretty apparent that the home situation wasn't ideal there, but…he's such a sweet child. So quiet, and he just tries so hard to do well at everything in class. I don't want to speak out of turn, here; when I came to this school, the other teachers told me that this community looks out for each other, really closely." At the other mother's nod and reassuring noises, Miss Barnes continued, "He just seems so tired. A student can't learn if he's sleepy! And his lunches – when he brings one, it's barely adequate, but he forgets just as often. I thought it was carelessness, but…"

Dean thought about how sometimes Cas would sit beside him in the lunchroom with an apple, insisting that he just wasn't hungry that morning. Sometimes Dean's mom would pack in extra treats, which Dean was always proud to share with his friend, just to see him smile. His own stomach felt uncomfortable now, thinking about how Cas's eyes would light up when Dean offered the food.

Caught up in his own worries, Dean jumped in surprise when he felt a hand on his shoulder. Mary stood behind him; she was gazing at the speaking women, her face full of consideration. After a moment longer, she bent and kissed Dean's cheek, reassuring him with her eyes. Dean felt his anxiety ease a little; he didn't know what he could do, but he'd never had any reason to doubt that, no matter what the problem, his mom and dad could take care of it.

The next afternoon, when Cas and Dean were playing with army men on the front porch, Mary stepped out and smiled at them. "Cas, you're having dinner with us tonight."

He sat up and frowned a little. "My mom says I have to be home before dark."

"I just spoke to her. She's working tonight, and I told her we would make sure you get a warm meal. The weather's getting colder, and I need more taste-testers for my famous tomato rice soup. And I even made a pie!" Dean gasped in delight, and the boys grinned at each other, worries about curfews forgotten.

If Cas became a regular face at the Winchester dinner table after that, nobody said anything about it. Dean thought that his mom was having a little difficulty estimating how much food to prepare in order to serve everybody; it seemed that often, there would be far too much food, and Cas would simply have to take leftovers home, or else "it'll just go to waste." Besides the meals, Cas was a routine participant in homework hour around the table, trips to the library, and even regular chores. And, of course, it was never unexpected to see two little heads buried into Dean's pillow at night instead of one, and Mary's quiet phone conversations smoothed over any friction or concerns. As far as anyone was concerned, Cas had a second family in the Winchesters.

Late at night, when everyone was sleeping, Dean and Cas would whisper to each other, sharing anything and everything on their boyish minds. The future loomed large and exciting, and Dean was more than ready to leap into it.

"Maybe we'll live on the moon!" he said, dramatically dropping his voice. "We could meet martians!"

"Martians are on Mars, not the moon," Castiel corrected him.

"Okay, then we'll live on Mars," Dean shrugged agreeably. "Would you go?"

"Of course," said Cas. "If you do."

"Where would you want to live?" Dean whispered. All their fantasy plans had come from his imagination, and he very much wanted his friend to contribute to the dreamscape. Cas's daydreams were always terrific.

"I'd want to live…" Cas thought, biting his lip. "Somewhere else. Just anywhere, so long as it's not here."

"Aw, here's not so bad," Dean said, loyal to his home. "We have our woods."

Cas nodded. "There are lots of woods, though. We can find other woods, and they'll be just as good, so long as they're ours."

"They will be."

"Then I don't care where we go. We'll go together, though, right?"

Dean was as sure as he'd ever been. "Always, Cas. I promise."

 


	2. Many are our visions bright, Which the future ne'er fulfills

_ Act 1, Scene 2 _

March, 2007

"Mr. Novak, I can't decide if I'm pleasantly surprised or disappointed to see you here right now," the counselor said, pinching the bridge of her nose in a sign of long-suffering frustration. "On the one hand, it feels like an honor that you decided to show your face in school today. First time this week, isn't it?" Castiel, toying with a hemp bracelet on his wrist, didn't bother with an answer; she hadn't really expected one. "On the other hand, despite the often entertaining reasons that usually see you sitting in my office, I can't help but think there might be better ways that both of us could be spending our mornings."

"Oh, I don't know about that, Mrs. Moseley," Cas said, wryly smirking. "You know I always enjoy our talks."

The counselor barked a short laugh. "Then bring me an apple, boy – or, better, a cup of coffee. Lord knows, I could use one. Tormenting your teachers might get you my attention, but it won't get you my respect."

"Well, that was probably a foregone conclusion, anyway. Can't respect somebody who doesn't respect themselves, right?"

Mrs. Moseley, unlike most of the teachers at the school, didn't rise to the bait. "Cut the bull, Castiel; it won't work on me. I've known you too long, young man. Honestly, I don't know if getting you into the Virtual School program was the smartest or the dumbest decision I've ever made. I knew you were never going to take your high school classes seriously, but I can't help feeling like now I've somehow given you permission to let everybody know exactly how little you care. You're only here half a day, when you  _ do  _ come in, and yet I see you in here just as often as before."

Castiel shrugged. He had no good response; she wasn't wrong about any of it. In a tiny high school that frequently had no choice but to cater to the lowest common denominator – which was often pretty damn low, both in ability and motivation – Cas had been beyond bored. Given the chance, he had been thrilled to opt out of the classroom setting for most of his academic courses, leaving only the few credits for which his physical presence was required to be completed in person.

"So what is it today?" Mrs. Moseley mused, reading the scribbled note that Cas had brought to her office. "Oh, Castiel. Did you really think Mr. Harding wasn't going to notice that your final art project was a big old marijuana bong?"

Cas couldn't help snickering. "No. I just didn't think he'd care. And it's technically a hookah. It was supposed to be an internationally-themed project, after all." The art teacher was widely acknowledged to be a dedicated stoner in his own right, an aging holdover from Woodstock whom time had apparently forgotten.

"Yes, well, maybe he wouldn't have cared as much if all the projects weren't going to be displayed as part of the 'Our Place in the World' showcase, which the governor's wife will be attending." Castiel snickered even harder, and the counselor rolled her eyes at him. "Go ahead and laugh, young man, but no matter how…" She glanced back at the note. "…'avant-garde' this little project is, you can't turn it in."

"Can I take it home?"

"No. It's been confiscated." Probably going into Mr. Harding's personal collection, Cas thought without much irritation. He just wished he'd been able to get a bigger reaction out of his teacher. Cas had been trying all year to get a glimpse behind the man's near-constant state of mellow.

"At least your online classes appear to be going well," the counselor was saying. "All advanced courses, plus a couple introductory college classes. Getting a head start, there. Good."

The mild words of approval carried more significance than might have been obvious to a casual listener. Cas knew that the counselor was remembering their first meetings, when he was starting high school and reaching the limits of his tenuous hold on the anger and bitterness he'd been suppressing. It was maddening to realize that no matter what he did, nobody really cared. He could have been at the top of his class or the bottom; the teachers were dismissive of the quiet boy with few friends, and his mother was oblivious to anything happening under her roof that didn't involve either medical bills or law enforcement. The only regular attention he received was from his brothers – which was to be avoided whenever possible – or from the Winchester family. But sometimes that felt like pity, which made him feel even more bitter.

Mrs. Moseley had not pitied him. "You think you're the first bright boy with a chip on his shoulder ever to come through my doors?" she'd asked the first time they'd met. She had known about his background, had known his brothers when they'd made their noisy, chaotic way through school ahead of him. The only acknowledgment she paid to that, when he'd tentatively raised the subject, was to take his hands and tell him, firmly, "You might come  _ from _ a place, but that place doesn't have to come  _ with _ you."

She'd helped him chart a course through school that fit his fierce need for independence, and he'd finally found the courage to tell her just how very much he dreamed of simply getting out. "I don't even care where," he'd said. "I just know that if I don't leave, I never will." Cas had never allowed himself to think of college, but when Mrs. Moseley told him she could work with him on his escape plan, he decided to humor her confidence.

"But Mr. Novak," she now said, shaking her head, "colleges do care about more than just grades. Graduation isn't for another few months, and straight-A grades and a bad attitude will only fly in hipster novels and Hollywood. Stop antagonizing your teachers, you hear me?"

"Yeah, sure." Cas stood, stuffing his hands in his coat pockets, nodding his goodbye as he sauntered out of the office. He was technically done with his classes today, now that it was lunch hour, so he was considering  grabbing something to eat from a vending machine before heading to the library to work on his online classes; he had a creative writing assignment that had been lurking at the back of his mind all day, nagging for attention.

Before he could get the loose change free from his pocket, however, he felt a hand on his shoulder, making him jump. Dean's casual grin loosened tension he hadn't realized he was carrying in his shoulders; somehow, just being in Dean's presence always made him feel more relaxed. He grinned back at him.

"So, I heard rumors that somebody was running a drug empire out of the ceramics studio," Dean drawled, cocking an eyebrow. "Know anything about that?"

"Nothing so high-reaching," Cas said, feigning seriousness. "Your top drug lords, they have to focus on so many details – budgets, marketing, public relations. Who has time for all that?"

Dean broke first, laughing. "Dude, but seriously? Are you even trying anymore?"

Cas tilted his head to the side, shrugging. "I'm not sure why I should. I don't need the art credit; I was thinking about dropping the class, anyway. Moseley seems to think that I need to be putting in at least a little bit of face time here, just for looks, so I'm scraping the bottom of the barrel for the classes with the least amount of actual work required."

"Well, I'm glad you're putting in time here, too," Dean said, slinging an arm around his shoulder. "I feel like I hardly get to see you! I've got all these practices and assignments, and you're basically living at the library these days. Not that I blame you." Besides offering the broadband internet access that was hard to come by in their rural area, the library had the added benefit of being somewhere Castiel's brothers avoided like the plague.

"You could have done Virtual School, too," Cas argued, though they both knew that would never have happened. Dean thrived on social activity, always in one sport or another, diving into group work in classes. The isolation of online studies would have driven him insane inside of a week. Cas marveled at their differences sometimes. He fought the impulse to curl into Dean's side, enjoying the warmth and weight of the one-armed hug.

"Anyway, what do you think you're doing?" Dean said, jerking a thumb at the vending machine. "Cas, snack cakes are not lunch."

Cas frowned. "One could argue that the filling might count toward the fruits and vegetables group, and the crust is clearly a grain."

"The only food group they belong to is the chemical one. There's more artificial coloring than fruit in there. If you're not going to care about your health, man, I'll do it for you." Dean smiled as they stepped into their long-standing argument. Years ago, when they had huddled together in Dean's room overnight and shared their dreams for the future, Dean had insisted that he was going to be a doctor someday. No matter how often Cas changed his own mind, from soldier to news reporter to beekeeper, Dean had never wavered, and he joked that his career ambitions had been born out of the near-constant need to patch up Castiel's various scrapes and injuries.

Cas had never found it necessary to inform Dean that most of his hurts weren't merely the product of poor coordination and bad decision-making. Dean knew that he didn't get along with his brothers, but he was content to dismiss them as "a bunch of dicks" and assume that they simply bickered like typical siblings who lacked supervision. That assumption was fine by Castiel.

He trusted Dean, possibly more deeply than he had ever trusted another person in his life. That probably was related to Dean having been the only person never to break that faith, either through indiscretion or taking advantage. His friend knew more about him than anyone, including Cas's own family, and, far from taking it for granted, Dean seemed to feel honored by it – an attitude that made Cas feel awkwardly undeserving at times. 

Dean was naturally protective over people about whom he cared, and Cas definitely fell under that umbrella. That was fine; he protected Dean, too, even if Dean never realized. There were just some things, some details, which would be too painful for Dean to know, simply because he wouldn't be able to help. 

Dean knew the Novak brothers fought. Cas kept to himself the ugly slurs they hurled at him, the physical bullying, the reasons he avoided wearing short sleeves in even warm weather. Dean knew Cas's dad wasn't around much. Cas didn't mention that the last time his father had come home, he was unable to immediately remember Castiel's name. 

When Cas had mustered the courage to say it out loud, Dean was the first person he had told that he was gay. What Dean didn't need to know – would  _ never _ need to hear – was that it wasn't so much "boys" that Cas found attractive, so much as it was one boy in particular. Dean had hugged Cas that night, told him he was grateful to be his friend, and Cas felt the secret burn in his veins.  _ I love you, Dean; it's always been you _ . He'd take those words to his grave. This friendship was the most important thing Cas had, and it was too much to risk.

"Fine," he said, pulling his mind back to the present and sighing dramatically. "If it will make you happy, I'll eat the chemicals offered by the school cafeteria instead of those offered by the vending company. I'm sure 'meatloaf surprise' is much more wholesome." He allowed Dean to steer them down the hallway toward the cafeteria, feeling slightly awkward when frequent greetings were called to Dean from other students passing them. Dean waved and hailed all of them in return, and Cas felt simultaneously proud of his best friend and unworthy to be by his side. 

Sometimes, Cas had real trouble fathoming how Dean Winchester had become so central to his life. Actually, when he really thought about it, which he tried to avoid, the more difficult concept was how Dean seemed to put  _ Cas _ in a similar position of priority. Ever since the day Cas had laid eyes on the boy, wandering through the woods that had been his favorite refuge from angry words and angrier hands, he had felt drawn to him – drawn to the sense of peace and optimism that Dean seemed to exude, which was unlike anything he'd ever felt in himself. Dean was spontaneous, trusting that all would work out just fine, whether the situation involved a torn pair of Sunday pants or an angry neighbor yelling at them for a prank gone wrong. Dean operated under the belief that if the world was going cock-eyed, it would eventually right itself, or, failing that, that he himself could find a way to right it, given enough twine, duct tape, and determination.

Dean never seemed to understand that there were things in the world – things in  _ Castiel's _ world – that a grin and a scheme couldn't fix. Something like shame over his own powerlessness churned Cas's stomach when he thought of what Dean might think if he ever truly did open his eyes and see him for who he really was. He'd either turn his back, as he rightfully should, and find other, less broken friends to occupy his time, or else he might try to help – to fix what could never really be fixed. 

To see Dean's confidence broken over his mess of an existence – no. Cas couldn’t bear that. So he kept his walls fortified, told jokes instead of truths, and tried his damnedest to keep Dean smiling. Someday soon, they'd promised each other, they'd finish school and leave this town together. Dean was destined for big things, and if he believed Cas was also running toward something instead of simply running, well, Cas would never disillusion him.

As they approached the lunch room, Castiel's contemplations were interrupted by a low voice purring from behind. "Hey, Clarence." 

He turned his head, smirking at the girl lounging against the wall by the lockers. "Hey, Lucy." It was a longstanding joke between Meg and Castiel, instituted years ago when they had inadvertently chosen the same hiding place behind the school when skipping classes. Meg called him "Clarence" after the famous movie angel; Cas called her "Lucy," after the bad girl subject of the Blood, Sweat, and Tears song "Lucretia MacEvil." Castiel was no angel, and Meg was not a whore. Both were somewhere in the muddy middle, and they enjoyed the perverse caricatures of the teasing nicknames.

"Meg," Dean said, frowning a bit. For no reason Cas had ever been able to understand, Dean and Meg had always rubbed each other the wrong way. Now Dean eyed her metal band tee-shirt disparagingly. "Didn't expect to see you there. School hours, would have thought you'd still be in bed or something."

"What can I say? I was feeling peppy today," Meg said with a sarcastic lilt. "Or maybe I just couldn't resist trying to catch a glimpse of your pretty face." Dean huffed and rolled his eyes, and Meg turned away dismissively, focusing on Cas. "Wanted to catch you before you left, Clarence. Got a smoke?"

Cas felt Dean tense beside him. He was about to tell Meg he didn't have time today, but he noticed a minute twitch around her eyes. Meg was very good at concealing her feelings, just as he was; secret-keeping was another thing they had in common, and seeing her control slip, even slightly, made him change his mind. "In my locker," he said. "I'll meet you." She quirked one side of her lips in a tiny smile, nodding as she sauntered away, and Cas turned to face Dean's disapproving scowl.

"I know," Cas sighed. "But the meatloaf is disgusting, anyway."

"Not the point."

"If I promise to find some kind of vegetable tonight, will you – "

"You can eat what you want, Cas," Dean interrupted. "Hell, I'm not even going to say anything about the cigarettes this time. I just don't know why you keep hanging around with Meg, of all people."

"She's my friend," Cas said, frowning.

"She's an evil skank, is what she is."

Cas folded his arms defensively. "You know, you throw that out there, but I'd love to know on what you're basing it. Even if she got around half as much as you seem to believe, what would make her any worse than the parade of dates who've been in and out of your backseat this year alone?" Dean flushed hard. It was a low blow, and Castiel immediately regretted it, but he was sick of hearing rumors about his friend, particularly when they were so unfair.

"Cas," Dean began, but Cas interrupted this time.

"No, that was uncalled for. You know I've never judged you like that." Well, it was sort of true. He hadn't really thought badly of Dean for the number of partners he'd had since girls had begun to appreciate his slow grin and his broad shoulders. He couldn't blame the girls, either. Who could resist the temptation of a flirting Dean Winchester, after all? Who, indeed – that was the heart of the real problem, and one for which there was nobody to blame but himself, in his darkest, most brutally honest moments.  _ How pathetic can you be,  _ his brain hissed.  _ Falling for the guy who's completely out of your league, straight as a post, and who thinks you're his best friend.  _

Dean ran a hand over his face and scrubbed it through his hair. "No, I know you haven't. Just…wow, man. I don't want to fight. You wanna hang with her, you go ahead, and I'll try to play nice." He wasn't meeting Cas's eyes, and the avoidance made Cas deeply uncomfortable. He'd crossed a line with his jab.  It hadn't been long ago that, sitting by a fire in the Winchesters' backyard, Dean had opened up about his mixed feelings over his Casanova reputation. 

"I'm sorry, Dean," he said. "Really. I just…"  _ I just don't want you to judge her. I'm just afraid you could be judging me, too. I just hate that we all have to act like other people all the time, and we still get condemned for the things we haven't even done. _

"Relax. It's fine." Dean smiled, though it didn't quite reach his eyes, and he put his arm back around Cas's shoulders for a moment. The electric thrill Cas had felt from the earlier hug felt dampened this time, under the tension of the argument. "I'll call you tonight, okay? Gotta go grab lunch now." With a last squeeze, he dropped his arm and headed into the cafeteria. Cas sighed again and rubbed his eyes before walking the other way.

Meg was waiting for him behind the shed next to the gym. Shivering slightly in the early spring chill, she was sitting on the ground, knees drawn up to her chest with her chin resting on them. Her earlier coolness was gone; stiffness radiated from her posture, and her eyes focused steadily into the distance. Cas put his back against the shed and slid slowly to the ground beside her, pulling the pack of cigarettes from his pocket and holding it toward her. She regarded it for a moment before laughing.

"Actually, no," she said. "And isn't that a kick in the teeth. I don't think I've ever wanted a smoke more than I do right now, but…"

"What is it?" She didn't immediately respond, and he didn't push. Other than Dean, Meg was the one person he knew in whom he could confide almost anything, and she'd done more than her share of confessing in exchange. There was no fear of condemnation between the two of them; the demons with which they each lived were too familiar for that. 

Finally, she dropped her forehead to her knees and shrugged harshly. "Knocked up," she said succinctly. 

Cas winced. He wasn't sure how to respond, but he was pretty sure it began with comforting his friend. "Meg," he said, putting his arms around her. She wilted, rigid shoulders collapsing sideways into him, and he could feel her breathing turn ragged, but she made no sound, and she didn't cry. It was long minutes before she finally lifted her head and exhaled fiercely.

"The dad's name is Christian, if you can believe it," she muttered. "Cousin of a friend. Honestly, I don't even want to tell him. We were only together the once. Turned out to be some kind of sadist freak. Pretty sure the names he was using meant he wasn't looking at me as the future mother of his children, either."

"Do you think you'll…?" Cas prompted hesitantly. He certainly wasn't going to criticize any decision she made, or even imply that she needed to make one right now. It was a raw moment.

"What makes you think I'm even going to get that choice?" she said, beginning to laugh. It was a gut-wrenchingly painful sound. "You know my uncle. If I'm even still pregnant by the time he gets through with me, he'll have me at the clinic as soon as I can get up off the floor."

Meg's uncle Crowley was a nightmare from which she couldn't wake. Her parents had died when she was thirteen, and her uncle had "generously" allowed her to live with him – in exchange for acting as maid, cook, and full-time punching bag. She had confided to Cas, in a cynical tone, that she kept doing calculations, weighing the time she had left before turning eighteen against time it would take for the legal system to do anything about it. Uncle Crowley had plenty of connections, which she figured meant that the system would move even more slowly than usual.

"Meg, no." Castiel's terror made him hold her even more tightly. "He can't…there's got to be…"

"I'm still seventeen," she said. "Won't be eighteen until after the baby would be born. And…maybe it's best. Who'd be stupid enough to let Uncle Crowley anywhere near a baby?" Her voice broke slightly at the end of her sentence, and Cas pulled her head into his shoulder.

"You aren't stupid," he said firmly. "And you should be able to decide for yourself what you want to do." They both knew the worth of "should." Meg's shoulders tightened again, and Cas rocked her, stroking her hair. On impulse, he softly sang the words to the song from which her nickname was drawn.

_ "Devil's got you, Lucy, under lock and key, _

_ Ain't about to set you free…" _

It was a long time before they spoke again, and during the silence, Castiel's thoughts had raced. Life was so very rarely fair, in his experience, and he had grown used to accepting that with little more than a bitter feeling in his gut. Now, for Meg, he wanted to fight. 

"Honestly, I don't want to let Uncle Crowley near  _ me _ anymore, either," she sniffed into his shoulder. "It's weird, but I kind of feel, like… _ protective _ . Like, I don't know if I want to be a mom or anything, but I don't want to let  _ him _ have that power. But he already has it. If I run, he'll find me, and he'll do what he wants." She shuddered.

"Don't do anything," Cas urged. "Just for right now, hold on. I'm going to figure this out. Please, trust me." He couldn't bear the thought of letting Meg face this alone. 

That night, Cas stayed at the library until it closed, though no coursework was touched. He pored over every legal and crisis network resource he could find, searching for a solution.

By the next morning, Friday, he had a plan. It was undoubtedly the most stupid, reckless plan he'd ever had, but he could see no other choice. The fact that Meg agreed – both to how stupid it was and to try it anyway – strengthened his resolve.  Instead of going to school that morning, they took a borrowed car across the state border into Kentucky, fingers crossed and jaws set.

\---

"Where were you?" 

Cas was so very tired, bleary eyes having difficulty staying focused by the time he was climbing out of the car in front of his house Saturday morning. Meg was asleep, head resting against the window. It took him a few seconds to register Dean sitting on the porch steps, watching him. "I was…out," he said, gathering himself. It was strange seeing Dean there; he could probably count on his fingers the number of times Dean had come to his house instead of the other way around. When they were children, Dean's mom had made it gently clear that she preferred having the boys spend time at the Winchester house instead, and it was a habit that had stuck.

"Yeah, I can see that much," Dean said. "I tried calling, but you weren't answering. When I came by this morning, one of your brothers – I assume, anyway; the guy's passed out on your sofa – said you hadn't been in since yesterday morning. You go on a bender or something?" His tone was sarcastic, but his eyes looked worried.

"It's a long story." Cas knew he'd have to tell Dean eventually, but he didn't want to, not yet. In truth, telling Dean was going to be one of the hardest parts of what he had to do, though it shouldn't be, he knew.  _ He'll be disappointed and angry, but only because he'll think I was stupid, not for any other reason. That's all on me. _

"So talk. I've got time."

"Dean, I'm so tired. Can it just – "

"Sure, man. Whatever." Dean threw up his hands. "Why don't you and your girlfriend just go sleep it off, sober up? The sofa's taken, but I think the kitchen table is available." 

"We're not drunk!" Cas snapped. He was exhausted, losing his temper, losing his hold over the wild emotions he'd been trying to contain for days.

"Then  _ what _ ?"

"We're  _ married _ !"

A long silence fell between them; Dean blinked in surprise. Finally, he said. "Is this some weird joke about the 'girlfriend' thing? Because correct me if I'm wrong, but didn't you come out to me our freshman year?"

"Strangely, that was not a question on the marriage application," Cas sighed.

"You're serious. She's…you…what the  _ fuck _ , Cas?" Dean's face was white; his eyes were huge and wild. 

"Dean, please stop shouting," Cas said, closing his eyes. There was nothing,  _ nothing _ , that he could think to say that would make this easier for Dean to understand. He didn't like Meg; he wouldn't understand why the thought of letting her suffer through this alone at the hands of her uncle was something Cas couldn't bear. Dean wasn't a bad person, but he simply wouldn't get it. In his view, there were always good ways out of bad situations.

"Well, maybe  _ I'm _ drunk, then," Dean muttered, starting to pace. "Last time we talked, your weekend plans involved writing an English paper, not – and how did you even manage to get married so fast, anyway? And isn't she still underage? Is this even  _ legal _ ?" He stopped pacing to jab a finger in the direction of Meg's head, still pressed against the glass. 

"It's legal in Kentucky," Castiel said, grimacing preemptively, "if the girl is pregnant."

Again, nobody spoke. This time, though, the silence was broken only by a final, sharp exhale, and Dean turned abruptly to walk toward his car.

"Dean, wait, please!"

"No, I don't think there's else anything to say." Dean reached his car door and would have opened it, had Cas not caught up and put his own hand on the handle first. Dean rolled his eyes. "You knocked up Meg. Great going, man. Call me when the baby shower is set."

"I did  _ not _ knock her up," Cas interrupted. "It's not my baby. Dean, please; I didn't lie about being gay. She's just my friend."

"She's your wife."

"Technically." It hadn't been intended as a joke, and neither boy laughed, though Dean rolled his eyes. "It was an emergency. This was the only way to protect her and her baby from her Uncle. He would have hurt her severely, and he would definitely have stopped the pregnancy, no matter what she wanted."

"Come on, Cas. You know there had to be another way. Did you think about calling the police? A lawyer or a social worker?"

"We're talking about Fergus Crowley. He keeps the town justice system on retainer." Even Dean couldn't deny that; it was common knowledge that Crowley had deep pockets and a solid history of investing in his own protection.

"Okay, I get that she was desperate, Cas, but what about  _ you _ ? You threw yourself into this, and now what? You're married, gonna be a dad? You're still in high school! What about your future?"

"I'll still have one," Cas argued. "Now maybe she will, too."

"All right, all right. Forget social workers, forget the police. Did you think of, I dunno, calling  _ me?" _ Dean crowded into Castiel's space, reaching out to grab his forearm. "I'm your best friend, man! How could you think of doing something this big without even talking to me? We could have figured out something!"

"Dean..." Cas didn't know how to say what he was thinking; he couldn't explain how or why it had become so crucial to keep Dean shielded and away from the most painful parts of his life. Part of him knew with certainty that if he had to, Dean would throw himself in front of a bus to protect Cas, without hesitation. Cas had been willing to make this sacrifice for Meg, but he would be damned if he'd let Dean give up any part of his own plans. "This isn't your problem," he finished.

"The hell it isn't!" Castiel had expected anger, but Dean's agitation was bewildering. A thousand emotions seemed to flicker across his face, none of which Cas could quite interpret. "You just did this without even...Cas, you and me, we...I never even..." He struggled, flushed with intensity. "We were going to leave here, together! Go off and change the world!"

"You'll still change the world! You don't need me for that."

"You're wrong," Dean said, voice suddenly hoarse. "You don't know –  _ I _ didn't know – and I never said...Cas, I..."

Suddenly, in a blinding flash of prescient clarity, he knew what Dean was going to say, and the impact hit him in his gut like a bullet. The emotion in his eyes, the clench of his jaw – he'd seen these tells before, in rare moments where Dean had allowed himself to pull back the curtains around his heart and throw caution to the wind, to be vulnerable. When he had whispered into darkness that he was afraid to go to sleep because of bad dreams. When he had confessed his torn feelings and fears about leaving behind his home and his brother after graduation. When he had admitted that he was only dating his way through the cheerleading squad because being a known playboy gave him an excuse for not getting close to anybody in particular. It was the expression he'd worn the moment when Cas had finally decided that no amount of harassment was worth the headache and heartache of pretending any longer and had come out as gay, telling his best friend before anyone else.

He knew what Dean was going to say, and he knew that it wasn't true. It wasn't real, and hearing him say it would destroy Cas, just as the regret of saying these words that he wouldn't really mean would destroy Dean.

"No, Dean," he interrupted harshly. He had to cut him, hurt him, get him to go. "You  _ don't _ need me. You've been trying to make me fit your big dreams for so long, but you never stopped to see that maybe it's not what I wanted. You're the one who's going to go change the world. My world is right here. I was never meant to leave!"

"No, that's not true, Cas – "

"Yes, it is." Cas felt the cruelty in his voice, more so because he was almost allowing himself to finally open up about all that he'd kept hidden for so long. "You don't even know the _half_ of what my life is. You never bothered to look!" _Maybe if you'd tried, you would have seen. I didn't want you to, but maybe I needed you to try._ "You've been making plans, and I've just been surviving. Well, I'm going to keep on surviving, right here, and I can make my own plans without your permission." _And you're going to leave, and part of me will die._ _But you'll never know._

Dean was staring, mouth slightly open. Cas was breathing hard, fighting back the urge to cry. Finally, Dean nodded hard. "Okay. I'm...I never meant to..." He closed his eyes. "Congratulations, I guess." He grabbed for the car door handle, and this time Cas moved out of the way to let him climb in. Dean didn't meet his eyes again as he threw the car into reverse and quickly peeled out of the driveway.

Cas felt as though he would shatter into pieces if he moved. He stood rooted, staring at the ground. A minute later, he felt a hand on his shoulder. Meg was quiet, coming around him and studying his face. After a moment, she said, "You love him."

"I don't want to talk about it."

"He loves you, too."

"No, he doesn't. And I said I don't want to talk about it." He clenched his hands into fists at his sides, trembling.

She sighed. "Come here, Clarence." She pulled him into an awkward hug, his arms too tense to reciprocate the embrace. "You're both idiots, and I kind of hate you now for ruining our lovely honeymoon with a big gay love triangle." A strangled laugh escaped his throat, turning into a choked sob. Then he was clinging to Meg, the dam broken and tears soaking her shoulder as she swayed back and forth with him.


	3. In my home beyond the mountains I shall ever dream of you

_ Intermezzo  _

**September 7, 2007, 11:03 PM**

SAMMY: Mom's pissed, Dean.

DEAN: I'm not even there anymore. What did I do now?

SAMMY: You were supposed to call and let her know how your first day of classes went.

DEAN: Shit

DEAN: They went like classes, man. Nothing terribly exciting. Big lecture halls, syllabuses.

SAMMY: *Syllabi

DEAN: Whatever, nerd

SAMMY: Jerk.

DEAN: Bitch.

SAMMY: It's too quiet here now. Mom's all weepy about her baaaaaaby going away to college.

DEAN: Thought you were the baby

SAMMY: I don't think it matters.

SAMMY: Make any new friends?

DEAN: A few, maybe. My roommate Benny is cool. A couple people from home came here, but it's a huge fricking school, so there's no way we'll ever see each other probably. Guess it's a fresh start.

SAMMY: Do you miss home?

DEAN: Barely left yet. Haven't had time.

SAMMY: Teachers at school asked me about you, how you're doing.

DEAN: Tell them I rushed a sorority.

DEAN: No, tell them I got picked to be the school mascot. That's me under the beard with the buckskin and rifle. 

SAMMY: I'll tell them you changed your major to animal husbandry.

DEAN: Marrying animals?

SAMMY: Sure, that's right.

SAMMY: I saw Cas yesterday.

...

SAMMY: Dean?

DEAN: Okay.

SAMMY: Dude, what happened between you guys? Why won't you tell me?

DEAN: Just drop it. I don't want to talk about Cas.

DEAN: Did he say anything?

SAMMY: He was working at the Gas n Sip. He looked tired.

DEAN: Babies will do that.

SAMMY: I heard Meg had a boy.

DEAN: I have to go now. Class in the morning.

* * *

 

**January 8, 2009**

_ Dear Mr. Novak, _

_ Thank you for the opportunity to consider your query regarding your book. Unfortunately, we feel that your premise does not sound like a good fit for our agency. Best of luck in finding suitable representation… _

\---

**March 16, 2009**

_ Mr. Novak, _

_ Regarding your submitted proposal, I regret to inform you that I am currently very selective about writers with whom I choose to work, and I must therefore decline the opportunity to consider your manuscript… _

\---

**August 30, 2009**

_ Dear Sir, _

_ Thank you for considering our literary agency to represent your project. It is with regret that we must currently pass on the opportunity to represent you and your work. Please do not be discouraged, and we hope that you will find success with another agency in the future… _

\---

**December 4, 2009**

_ Dear Mr. Novak, _

_ While I am flattered that you sought me out to consider your collection of stories for representation, I am not currently accepting new clients. Happy holidays… _

\---

**January 12, 2010**

_ Dear Sir:  _

_ Thank you for your submission and interest in our publishing house. We receive many unsolicited manuscripts, and given this overwhelming volume, we do not consider manuscripts received directly from authors. We encourage you instead to seek an agent to represent your work, as it is nearly impossible to find publication without representation… _

* * *

**April 20, 2010**

**TO: Mary Winchester (mamajude1979@yahoo.com)**

**FROM: Dean Winchester (dewinchest@wvu.edu)**

**SUBJECT: Sit down for this**

_ Hey, Mom! Good news: the student loans I'll have to repay when all this is over are gonna be a little less heavy. My advisor just called, even though I'm still waiting on the official letter (I think she likes me), and it looks like I'll be sticking around at WVU for med school, starting a year earlier than I expected. I guess I did pretty well on the MCAT, and since all the professors know me and apparently don't hate me, they decided to hang onto me for a while longer. _

_ I know I talked about looking at med schools in bigger areas like Chicago, but I'm not "settling." Staying in-state feels good. I feel like I'm really making this choice, not having it made for me, you know? These past few years have been eye-opening in a lot of ways (and not just that physiology lab with the eye dissection I told you about and promised not to send pictures of). Can't explain, but there it is. _

_ Tell Dad he can keep getting his season football passes, and I'll see him in the parking lot for tailgating. _

* * *

 

**November 27, 2011, 10:37 PM**

SAMMY: Stressed over history test. Distract me? How was your day?

DEAN: Pretty good. Remember that friend Charlie, the one I said you needed to meet when you come up to visit?

SAMMY: The one who works in the library?

DEAN: Yeah, her. She dragged me to a student GSA meeting with her. Free meal, even if it was mostly cookie-based.

SAMMY: Wow. Dean, I'm so proud of you. 

DEAN: What

DEAN: No, hang on.

DEAN: It's "Gay Straight Alliance." I'm the ALLY here.

SAMMY: Oh

SAMMY: Um. My bad. Let's just pretend I didn't say anything, then.

DEAN: No, we're not pretending that! 

SAMMY: I just thought you were finally letting yourself be open and relaxed about everything

DEAN: I have no idea what you're talking about. Dude, as long as you've known me, at what point did I ever give any evidence that I'm not straight?

SAMMY: Well. Cas?

DEAN: DUDE! 

SAMMY: I know, we're not talking about him. You asked, though.

DEAN: He was just my friend, not my BOYFRIEND.

SAMMY: Dean, if he was "just your friend," you wouldn't have this much trouble talking about him now. You haven't even seen him in six years. That wasn't just a falling out, it was a breakup.

DEAN: We are not having this conversation

SAMMY: You started it! And it's not like he's the first guy crush I've ever seen you have. He's just the only one you really…you know.

DEAN: I really don't.

SAMMY: You loved him.

...

SAMMY: Dean?

...

SAMMY: You still there?

SAMMY: Look, I'm sorry if you're freaked out. I'm not sorry I said that, though. I'm sort of shocked that apparently it was news to you – I just thought you guys were doing a poor job trying to hide it from everyone.

DEAN: We?

SAMMY: I'll believe you didn't know what you were feeling, but I'm not buying that you couldn't see he loved you too. Nobody's that blind.

DEAN: This has been a really long, weird night, and I think I need to just be unconscious now.

SAMMY: Yeah, okay. We'll talk later.

\---

**11:52 PM**

QUEENOFMOONS: Hey, Dean! You still up? Just got off the phone with Aaron – you met him at the meeting tonight. The guy you were totally awkwardly flirting with? 

QUEENOFMOONS: Anyway, he thinks you're cute and wanted me to give him your number, so I thought I'd give you a heads up!

DEAN: Charlie, I do not have the words to describe your timing. Can we get coffee before seminar tomorrow? Need to talk.

* * *

 

**January 4, 2012**

**TO: Missouri Moseley (mmoseley@bearhillshs.edu)**

**FROM: Castiel Novak (cnovak@gmail.com)**

**SUBJECT: Greetings**

_ Thank you again for making the introduction between me and Mr. Adler; as of yesterday afternoon, he has agreed to work with me as a ghostwriter with his publishing firm. I will admit, it is not exactly what I had hoped to be doing; looking over the first project he's assigned me, I am less than enthusiastic about the subject matter. (Monster books. Think more "Twilight" than Lovecraftian.) But I am capable of doing the work professionally, and perhaps I'll be able to make that silk purse out of a sow's ear, as you assured me I could do. You were right; I need to get my foot in the door, and this will be better for me than the convenience store. I probably should have listened sooner. I still feel that there is a certain nobility to service work, however.  _

_ On the other hand, the added money will come in handy soon, I think. I'm sure you remember Meg, my wife (yes, you've told me what you think about that), and you know that Jesse, her son, is getting bigger and becoming increasingly self-reliant on a near daily basis, as children do. We've decided that at this point, he's old enough that we feel comfortable moving out of the "survival mode" in which we've lived since he was born. After much discussion, Meg has decided to return to school, which I am happy to be able to help her do, particularly in light of how it will benefit Jesse. He may not be my son, but he is dear to me. (As is his mother, my friend.) _

_ Thank you for your assistance in helping us all move forward… _

* * *

**West Virginia University Office of Admissions**

**March 4, 2012**

_ Dear Meg Masters, _

_ Congratulations! You are admitted to West Virginia University! We know you have what it takes to succeed as a Mountaineer. _

_ You are admitted as a Resident student into the Pre-Nursing major for the coming fall term. We look forward to seeing you on campus! To confirm your enrollment… _

* * *

**October 12, 2012**

**TO: Castiel Novak (cnovak@gmail.com)**

**FROM: Meg Masters (memasters@wvu.edu)**

**SUBJECT: HI**

_ Hi Cas. This is me Jesse! Mama told me I could write you email on her compyuter. I miss you very much. Our new apparttmant is small and mama's room mate is not as nice as you. Mama told me that your mama died and that you are sad. Pleas dont be sad. She is probaly with angels and is an angel and has wings now. Mama says its okay to be sad somtimes but I dont like it when people are sad. So dont be sad too much. _

_ Mama gos to scool and I go to scool too now. I have a pink back pack and som boys were meen and said boys cant have pink back packs but they are rong. I am a boy and I lik pink very much. One boy was very meen so I punched him and mama said its not okay but im glad I did it anyway. Dont tell mama because she will be mad agan. _

_ I miss you very very very very very very much. I think you need a frend to give you a hug. _

* * *

**March 15, 2014, 11:27 AM**

DEAN: Hey, Sammy, how do you feel about seeing me back home in the near future?

SAMMY: You mean none of your residency programs matched you? Dude, sucks!

DEAN: What? No! I matched where I wanted! I'm doing a rural residency, not too far north of home. 

SAMMY: Just messing with you. Of course you matched. Didn't see your pick coming, though. Thought you'd pick a big hospital or something.

DEAN: Why?

SAMMY: I thought you always wanted to be some bigshot doctor, people coming from all over to have you save them

SAMMY: Maybe come up with some new surgery or treatment they'd name after you. The "Winchester Procedure."

DEAN: Yeah

DEAN: That used to be the plan

DEAN: Well, not the "Winchester Procedure," because I'm not a douchebag

SAMMY: So why the change?

DEAN: Med school rotations. It was like, room 45 is a heart transplant, room 523 is cataracts, this lab result is sepsis

DEAN: And it bugged me because room 45 wasn't a heart transplant, it was a woman with three kids and a corgi. That lab result was an old guy who wanted the nurses to play chess with him.

DEAN: And part of that was the fact that med school is fucking insane, but I saw attending doctors doing it as much as students. They'd just put on blinders and look at numbers and diagnoses. I even had one instructor tell me that I should actively TRY to avoid humanizing the patients too deeply, or else I'd burn out. 

SAMMY: Damn

DEAN: if I ever hit that stage of dissociation, tell me to retire or find another career

SAMMY: Deal.

DEAN: So I'm heading back into the sticks. 

SAMMY: Did you just use an emoticon???

DEAN: Shut up

SAMMY: Now I know you've really changed

DEAN: 

* * *

**October 21. 2015**

_ Your Highness, _

_ Bet you’re rethinking this whole Global Health focus now, Charlie. I mean, my residency might be what you’d call rustic, but at least I’m not doing a rotation in a location where a package of Red Vines requires a customs form. I’ve stuffed as much sugar and MSG as I can into this box for you - you’re lucky I wound up owing you so many favors from med school that you can call in now. I still think you’re nuts, but they’re lucky to have you down there.  _

_ Writing paper letters feels so damn old-school. So ironic that the most tech-savvy person I know is now more dependent on paper and pen communication than any of us.  Just don’t fall too much in love with the whole “wilderness adventure” thing. I want you back here at the end of all this, you hear? No running off with any jungle princesses, never to be seen again except for the occasional vaccine clinic. (You’ll have to imagine I used snarky emojis here. It’s like I’ve forgotten how to be sarcastic in long-hand, and it’s mostly your fault.) _

_ How are the jungle princesses, anyway? I have to ask, since you never hesitate to bug me about my own prospects, and it feels weird not to have a ringside seat for the dramas of your lovelife at the moment. You’ll say I’m deflecting now, but I swear, I’m not. It’s just weird. Like, remember when you told me that coming out was a process, not a one-time-deal? Remember how freaked I was, but you reassured me it would eventually get easier? (Seriously, do you remember? Because that weekend is still a liquory haze to me…) I mean, you weren’t  _ wrong _ , but I guess I assumed it would be more of a linear thing, not whatever this bullshit is. I’m “home” now, and even people who didn’t actually know me from before I left think that they did, so I’m fighting off old reputations and country boy assumptions. “Oh, John and Mary’s boy! The ladykiller rascal!” It’s just easier not to date at all, even the “very available” daughters and granddaughters people keep trying to push at me. _

_ Anyway, it’s not like there’s anybody around here pinging my radar. Even the bar scene - which is a bad idea anyway in this kind of a small town where everybody talks - is pretty bleak. And before you say it, and I know you would because Sam already has, it’s not about hiding who I am or being scared or anything. The people whose opinions matter all know, and that’s enough. If the stars align and the right person comes along...well, I’ll think about that then. _

_ Anyway, enjoy the care package. I feel like some kind of father figure, sending one of these. Wear sunscreen, young lady; you’re closer to the equator now. (Imagine me shaking my cane or something.) _

_ Ever your servant, _

_ Dean _

* * *

**September 2, 2016, 3:15 PM**

MEG: Whatcha working on now, vampires or werewolves?

CAS: Zombies, actually. It's a romance.

MEG: Oh, please tell me the main pairing is both undead. 

CAS: Bingo. They initially wanted one to be living, but "Warm Bodies" got there first.

MEG: I can only imagine the sex scenes. Moaning and groaning will have whole new meanings.

CAS: I'm still trying to understand how a zombie can get an erection. Circulation would be required, wouldn't you think?

MEG: That's your problem. You're overthinking it. HE'S HARD THROUGH THE POWER OF LOVE.

CAS: That will probably sell, actually. I'll include it.

MEG: You're either vastly over or underpaid.

CAS: My opinion varies.

MEG: At least it's not hard work, though, right? You have lots of free time to screw around with whatever you want.

CAS: I'm working on a series of short stories based on interpersonal relationships of bees, actually. Social networking, power dynamics, communication.

MEG: …no, I said "screw around." I don't know what all that is, but it doesn't sound like relaxing and having fun.

CAS: I like watching the bees!

MEG: Oh, trust me, I know. But when's the last time you tried "social networking" with another actual human?

MEG: And don't say your publisher. Zachariah Adler might write your paychecks, but I wouldn't call him human.

CAS: I suppose it's been a while.

MEG: Clarence, what are you doing? 

CAS: I don't know what you mean.

MEG: You can't use our marriage as an excuse anymore. Isn't it time to get back out there? You were more connected when you were serving Slushees for a living.

MEG: I just miss seeing you smile. Of all the guys I've ever known, you're the one who probably least deserves to end up lonely.

CAS: I'm not lonely.

MEG: Sure. Be honest, then: when's the last time you physically touched or were touched by another person? Even a handshake?

MEG: It even got called out in one of our lectures not too long ago. People need touch to thrive. 

CAS: Are you trying to practice medicine on me, Nurse Masters? And without a license? 

MEG: Nice deflection. 

CAS: Look, I'm fine. I'm great. There's just nobody that I want to touch, if we're being honest. I did try dating a few times, but maybe it's just me. 

MEG: You're still pining for him, aren't you. Have you ever thought about emailing him or something? You're all single and available now. Could just see if what you're missing even exists anymore.

CAS: Please, stop. 

CAS: Hang on, somebody's at the door. I can't imagine who…

...

MEG: Cas? You still there?

MEG: Everything okay?

CAS: Meg, I need to go. I will call you later. 

\---

**TO: Zachariah Adler (zadler@sandoverink.com)**

**FROM: Castiel Novak (cnovak@gmail.com)**

**SUBJECT: Upcoming Pittsburgh trip**

_ Mr. Adler, _

_ I apologize for the short notice, but I will need to alter the plans for our upcoming meeting at Sandover in Pittsburgh. My estranged father is apparently dying and has returned home to do so. As soon as he has passed and the necessary arrangements have been handled, I will reschedule with you. _

_ Again, I regret the inconvenience. _


	4. In the evening time of life, If my Father only wills

_ Act 2, Scene 1 _

December 10, 2016 

It had been the kind of day that felt as though angels above were chorusing down to Dean, "Yes! You are on the right path!" In the busy hospital where he'd done his med school rotations, he'd felt trapped in a whirlwind of lab results, treatments, and diagnoses, often to the point where he had to continually and consciously remind himself that there was an actual human person behind all the numbers and medical terms. 

When he'd realized that it was more than mere homesickness that was plaguing him during those hectic years, it had felt like a revelation. He didn't just miss his family and friends – he missed the breathing room afforded by his small, slow-paced community, and he missed the type of people who embraced that laidback, rural existence. He'd wanted to change the world, but suddenly he recognized that there was more than one way that he could do that. He didn't want to eat, sleep, and breathe medicine; he wanted to eat, sleep, and breathe  _ people. _

And so here he was, a resident in a rural health program in a town that felt so much like his own hometown that it was almost unnerving to see the few differences. Of course, he was only about an hour from home, so that was unsurprising. His mom had been thrilled to have him so close, and it made her especially proud to "show him off" to friends who could now drop by the clinic where he had been assigned to work for the past few years. Occasionally that became uncomfortable, such as when old Rufus Turner had refused to listen to Dean's dietary suggestions. "Boy, I knew you when you was stealing candy bars off my store shelves!" he'd grumbled. "Don't you go telling me how  _ I'm _ supposed to lay off the junk!" 

But he loved it. He loved the bred-in-the-bone stubbornness that Appalachia seemed to grant. He loved the way he not only was encouraged to take his time listening to each patient, but that each patient  _ demanded  _ it. These were not people who would appreciate a God Complex in their doctor, and the other doctors at the clinic warned him that failure to connect personally would likely result in patients simply staying away from medical care, even if their health suffered.

This morning, he had found himself playing a role he knew damn well was something he'd never have done outside of the rural health track, and it had his energy thrumming. Ice and snow had fallen the days before, and many of the clinic's regular patients were going to be unable to make their scheduled visits. The first time that had happened, during his first year of residency, he'd been surprised to arrive at the clinic to find his supervising physician shrugging into his winter coat.

"Don't get cozy," he'd said, leading Dean back out the door and to his truck. They'd spent the day traveling winding country roads from house to house, tending to patients whose needs couldn't wait for a thaw. The experience had been inspirational for Dean. This was a level of care that part of him had always wanted to be able to give. It resonated deeply within him, and he knew the sort of doctor he wanted to become.

At this point in his residency, he was trusted to do house calls on his own for routine cases, his supervisor staying behind at the clinic. Most of the patients he'd visited today had been elderly, with complaints related to aging: blood pressure problems, arthritis, emphysema. All of them had wanted to chat more than to be examined, and getting out the door on schedule was a losing battle. His last visit, Mildred, had flirted shamelessly with him while he tried to insist that she check her blood sugar more frequently.

"I'm not sure I remember how the thingamajig works, Doctor. Maybe you can show me again?" She'd batted her eyelashes, and he'd sighed and grinned. He didn't mind playing along, as long as the end result was that she used the meter.

He was still smiling, crunching one of the homemade cookies she'd pressed upon him, as he drove to the last house on his chart. It was a hospice patient, which made him nervous; he didn't typically see those, but the clinic was small enough that occasionally duties were shared, and the resident who would have checked in on…Dean glanced at the chart for the name. Right, Mr. Shurley. That resident was out with the flu, so he was filling in. Apparently, Mr. Shurley was sleeping most of the time now, nearing the end of his battle with heart failure. All Dean should need to do was make sure the pain medication was doing its job and answer any questions the family might have. That was going to be the worst part, he thought, cringing. He could already hear them asking, "Why?" as though he had any answers beyond the physiological ones.

Morbidly humming "Dust in the Wind" under his breath as he stomped through the snow drifts in front of the tiny, old house, he braced himself and put on his most professional face before knocking.

In retrospect, he should have braced a bit harder.

"Cas?"

At the sight of the tousled black hair and blue eyes staring in shock, Dean almost stumbled backwards into the snow, catching himself on the doorframe just in time. He didn't really need to ask whether it was Cas or not; that face, a decade older than he had last seen it, could belong to nobody else. In a flash, Dean was standing in that driveway, all those years ago, feeling the pain of his heart being ripped from his chest. He hadn't even understood why it had hurt so much – not then, not yet. Understanding had come far too late.

Cas was obviously as thrown as he was. "Dean? What are you doing here?" He suddenly shivered, and Dean was abruptly reminded that he was standing on the cold doorstep.

"Tessa McKeon, the hospice resident, is sick, so you get me today," he said, trying to regain his sense of balance. "I'm just here to check on, uh, Charles. Charles Shurley? Are you…?" He was still trying to reconcile Cas's presence here, in this house. He couldn't remember Cas ever mentioning having family in this area, let alone anybody with that name.

_ Maybe it's one of Meg's relatives, _ a poisonous-sounding voice whispered meanly.  _ Maybe it's an in-law. _

Cas seemed to come to his senses then. Running a hand through his hair, mussing it even further, he stepped back out of the doorway. "Come in, it's freezing out there," he said. He was wearing only a thin tee shirt and jeans, the house being kept warm and snug. Dean followed him into the small front room, dominated by the bed and oxygen machine. On autopilot, his eyes scanned the man lying on it, checking for any telltale signs of discomfort.  _ Moderate cyanosis of the lips. Jugular venous distention. _ Dean walked to the bedside and paused, taking a moment to collect himself. 

"Mr. Shurley, my name is Dean Winchester."

"He can't hear you." Cas was frowning, an odd, unreadable expression on his face.

"Maybe," Dean answered. "We don't really know what he can hear right now. But he's still my patient, and I introduce myself to all of my new patients."  _ Stay professional. He's upset because this man is dying.  _

Cas rolled his eyes. "If you feel like you need to," he said, moving to his chair and dropping into it roughly. 

"I do." Dean was feeling traces of anger trickling through his waning shock. Cas seemed almost irritated that he was there. If Dean had ever really allowed himself to imagine a reunion between the two of them – which he hadn't, of course – it certainly would have looked nothing like this. He didn't know what to say to soften the strange tension.

Continuing his swift examination, Dean concluded that all was going, if not  _ well _ , at least as expected for Mr. Shurley. "I believe the current respiratory and pain treatments are still where we want them," he said. "Has he been having any changes in symptoms? Anything new?"

"He's fine," Cas said. "What you see is pretty much what there is. He's not even waking enough to eat anymore. Not that he was eating much before that." Sighing, he added, "I suppose his last words are going to be 'Didn't your mom teach you to make soup?'"

Dean coughed, trying not to laugh inappropriately; Cas didn't look amused. "So, he is a relative of yours?"

"My dad."

Now it made sense. The anger, the bitter tone in Cas's voice. What didn't make sense, still, was how it had come to pass.

"I'm sorry," Dean said, almost automatically. That was what you said when somebody's father was dying, right? Except that he knew damn well that this man had never been a father to Castiel, or at least not in the years Dean had known him. 

"Thank you," Cas returned, providing the socially correct response to Dean's statement. It was a horrible parody of a church call and response, all ritual and no meaning.

"So, this is his house?" Dean tried again to make sense of the situation.

"No, it's mine."

"I didn't know you guys moved."  _ Stupid, why would you? It stopped being your business years ago. _

"Yes," Cas said, biting his lip and glancing to the side. Obviously there was something going unsaid, but he'd leave it for now. It wasn't his place to push for details to which he wasn't entitled.

"And your dad…he's living with you?" Well, that was the most stupid thing he'd said in a while. Cas stared at him, not even deigning to reply with a sarcastic answer that he was simply visiting for the day. "What I mean is, you asked him to stay with you…for this?" Dean fumbled over his awkward question.

Folding his arms, Castiel bluntly said, "You're asking why I'm the one taking care of him now, after all this time." When Dean nodded, grateful for the rescue, he continued, "Because he showed up here and asked. And I, apparently, am still capable of making stupid and reckless decisions."

It could have sounded hostile, coming from anyone that Dean didn't know as well as he did Cas. Despite their time apart, though, Dean was able to easily spot the hurt and sadness behind the words. Cas had always been in the habit of levying the most vicious criticisms at himself when he was feeling vulnerable. This time, Dean was pretty sure that his feelings of vulnerability were only partly related to the dying man in the room.

"Cas," he said. "If this was a stupid decision, then it was stupid for the right reasons." Castiel's eyes darted up to meet Dean's, suspicion filling them. "Anyway," he said, "I don't know that I'd call it stupid. Unexpected, sure. And I'm sure you did have reasons."

Cas huffed quietly, staring back down at the ground. Then he jerked his head toward a doorway leading to the kitchen, a silent invitation that Dean accepted with a nod. A coffeepot on the counter filled the room with a dark aroma, and Cas poured them both mugs before joining Dean at the table. "What if my 'reasons,'" he said, gesturing with the air quotes Dean hadn't known he'd missed until then, "were simply a base need to watch the old man die and finally leave for good?" He looked as if he were expecting judgment from Dean.

"Probably understandable," Dean said, shrugging. "You'd be amazed, the kinds of feelings people express when somebody's dying, loved one or not. Doesn't mean it's that simple, usually. You can't judge people by what they say at a deathbed. I can't imagine what your mom had to say."

"She's gone," Castiel said. "Few years back." This time, there was the predictable twinge of sadness in his eyes as he spoke, and Dean's murmured condolence felt more honest. "And my brothers…well, they decided to sit this one out. I'm the only one with the right combination of morbidness and masochism to deal with this, so I'm alone here."

"What about…" Dean hesitated, worried that mention of Meg would disrupt the fragile, and probably temporary, peace between them. 

Cas sipped his coffee slowly. After a moment, he said, "It's just me. Meg and Jesse are in Morgantown now. She's nearly finished her nursing degree at WVU."

"Wow," Dean said. "Meg, a nurse. That's…that's great. Hey, maybe we crossed paths, depending on when she started; I went to med school there." Cas hummed noncommittally. Dean dropped his eyes to Cas's hands, cradling his mug, and noted that he wore no ring. It didn't necessarily mean anything – he hadn't been wearing a ring when he'd announced that he was married – but Dean couldn't help but wonder now. "How's motherhood treating her? Jesse, you said?"

"You'd be surprised," Cas said with a small smirk that hinted that he himself hadn't been. "It's been fascinating to watch Jesse grow. He's so smart, and every bit as sassy as Meg ever was."

Dean smirked back. "And I'm sure his father has nothing to do with that."

"I wouldn't know." Cas tilted his head, thinking. "Oh, you meant me."

"Uh, yeah," Dean said, squinting in confusion. "Obviously."

"Not as much as you're thinking, I gather." Frowning, Cas studied Dean's face. "Dean, I told you. Meg is my friend. We married out of necessity, not romance. We were housemates, partners. I helped babysit Jesse, but…" He shook his head. "He was never my  _ son _ ."

"Oh." Dean was completely speechless. Years of assumptions were being thrown out the window, and he didn't know how to react.

"You didn't honestly think that I somehow transformed into some sort of straight-laced, boob-loving family man, did you?" His expression was a mix of amazement and amused curiosity.

"No!" Dean scoffed. "Maybe. Shut up."

"Dean – "

"Well, what was I supposed to imagine?" he protested. Cas was grinning at his discomfort, and his cheeks were burning hotly. 

"You didn't need to imagine anything. You could have just listened to me."

"Yeah, because you were always so open with me." Dean hadn't intended to be so pointed, but he couldn't help it. It was  _ not _ his fault that he had misunderstood, not entirely. Cas knew that, too, and his grin faltered.

"There was a lot going on that you didn't know," he said, closing his eyes. 

"Because you didn't tell me," Dean said, "not because I didn't care. Cas, you turned everything upside-down for me that day, and you got mad when it made me dizzy."

"You were angry, not dizzy, if I remember correctly." Cas focused on refilling his empty cup, offering more to Dean as well. He shook his head, not needing the caffeine setting his nerves even more on end. 

"I was angry. I thought we were always honest with each other, but it turned out you were hiding from me. It…it hurt." He breathed deeply. "And I handled it really damn badly. Shouldn't have yelled. Should have let you explain better."

"Well." Cas was staring sadly, tiredness in his eyes. "I suppose it's all water under the bridge now. And the result…you left, I stayed, and life went on."

For a breath, Dean felt himself being tugged along in a river of regrets and loss. A beep from the oxygen machine sounded from behind him. The sound jarred him out of his resignation. The man was dying, as inevitable as sunset. There were some things that could never be avoided, never changed; free will could only alter so much.

This was not one of those things. He'd walked away then, and he'd never stopped regretting that. Not this time; he wouldn't let it happen again.

"In case you hadn't noticed, I came back," Dean said slowly. "And unless I miss my guess, you didn't exactly stay in the same place. Ten years changes a lot, don't you think?"

Narrowing his eyes thoughtfully, Cas said, "I did wonder, now that you mention it. Why are you here, Dean Winchester? This wasn't ever part of any big plan you described."

"Like I said, time changes things. I'd make a joke about not being able to take the country out of the boy, but that would be too simple. Maybe when it came down to it, I realized that I still had things I wanted to do here. Unfinished business." He searched Cas's face for his reaction, trying to read his thoughts.

"You were going to change the world," Cas murmured.

"I am," Dean said. "We all do."

Castiel put his mug on the table, rubbed his temples. "Not all of us," he said. "Some of us never find our way out of the woods. All we can do is watch other people leave, praying they make it."

"Like Meg." Cas nodded. "And me." He nodded again. "And you don't think that you changed the world by helping us become better people, just for having known you?"

Surprise flashed across Cas's eyes. Then he shook his head. "You'd have been who you are without me. You'd have become this man I see. Your heart was always too  _ good _ to be anything else."

"I'm not so sure, Cas," Dean said, keeping his tone deliberately light. "See, the way I see it, I don't think I really knew who I was without you. Even when I left, you were there. For the record, you give really good advice inside my head. I probably could have worn some kind of 'What Would Castiel Do?' bracelet sometimes."

Cas laughed. "If my decisions have been the compass by which you've steered your life, I'm surprised you ever became a doctor at all."

Dean held up a finger. "Putting other people first." A second finger. "Helping shoulder the load for people who can't on their own." A third. "Not turning away from the hard choices." A fourth. "Staying committed to your decisions, even when it hurts." Finally, he held up his thumb. "Acknowledging who you are and what you want, even if other people might judge you, even if you might not ever actually get what it is you want, because you deserve to want things."

Cas was looking at him as if he'd never seen him before. Dean paused, then committed.  _ All in _ . He leaned across the table and rested his hand on Cas's. "I knew what I wanted, all those years ago, but I didn't have either the courage or the understanding to acknowledge it until it was too late. Only maybe it wasn't too late. Cas, I loved you. I don't think I ever stopped."

"I know," Cas whispered. He looked stricken, unable to move. "I didn't want to know."

"It's been years, and I have no idea if we would have worked back then. We were kids, and we were stupid.  _ Both  _ of us," he said, cutting off Cas's attempt to protest. "I know that I grew up and changed, and you did, too. But I'm done with walking away from you. I'm done with failing without trying. If this thing between us fails, this time, I'll be damned if it's because I didn't give it everything I could."

Cas shuddered, hand clenching at nothing under Dean's. "It would be easier to walk away. Less pain."

"And since when do you make the easy choices?" Dean squeezed his hand around Castiel's knuckles. "Look, I'm not asking for your hand in marriage. Hell, for all I know, you're still married. Uh, are you?" Cas snorted and shook his head; Dean sighed in mock relief. "See? That's one hurdle we don't have to worry about. Anyway, how about we start with coffee. More coffee, I mean. Not that this isn't good. I just mean…" Suddenly he jumped to his feet, startling Cas. "I mean coffee some time when I'm not technically supposed to be back at the clinic, on duty! Crap!"

He spun on his feet, searching for his charts and his discarded coat. When he turned around again, Cas was there, holding both out to him. "Coffee," Cas said, the tiniest of smiles escaping to play at the corner of his lips. "I can do coffee."

As Dean drove back down the country road toward the clinic, away from Castiel, his heart raced as hard as it had ten years ago. This time, though, felt like a beginning instead of an end.


	5. Is it any wonder then, That my heart with rapture thrills

_Act 2, Scene 2_

February 12, 2016

"…and when we finally found him, he was about half a mile into the woods, sitting on a tree branch about five feet off the ground. I didn't even know four-year-olds could climb trees."

"Well, you did help raise him. It was probably inevitable that he'd absorb some of your personality."

Dean and Cas had been sitting in the small diner for more than an hour, catching up on years of stories. Cas had worried at first, thinking that he had so little to share, compared to all that Dean had surely seen and experienced in his education, but Dean seemed just as fascinated by Cas's journey.

"It was difficult to play that role sometimes," Cas admitted, scrolling through the photos of the boy on his phone as he showed them to Dean. For as clear as it was that he genuinely had been nothing more than Meg's close friend, he was as proud of her son as if he were his own. "Jesse knew very well that I wasn't his father, but neither was I a peer, obviously. When I tried to discipline him, he often seemed slightly confused by it."

"Probably he was just picking up on your worries about it. Kids are pretty flexible, and they get better than we do that family doesn't end with blood. Remember how Mom and Dad pretty much parented you a lot of the time when we were kids? I saw Dad lay into you like he did to us when we were trying stupidly dangerous stuff, and you weren't confused by it, right?"

"I was at first," Cas admitted, remembering. "But that was probably more because I'd never really been disciplined much at all, rather than because I was used to somebody else filling that position."

Dean grimaced. "You always kept that part of your life so secret. I never wanted to push, because I figured you didn't like thinking about it, or you were trying to get away from it."

"That wasn't entirely it," Cas sighed. "It was more like…if I had told you what my home was like, where I came from, you'd have tried to help me, right?"

"Of course," Dean said without hesitation.

"But, Dean, you were a boy. What would you have done?" Hesitantly, Cas reached across the table and gripped Dean's forearm. Their plates, long since cleaned of the last crumbs of pie and ice cream, lay forgotten; the waitress, sensing the weight between the two men, had avoided cleaning the table in order to give them their privacy. "You were already doing everything you could have done. You listened to me, and you let me be quiet as well. Your home was always open to me when I needed it. Would knowing that I was there because I was avoiding more bruises at the hands of a brother have changed anything? And before you answer," he said, stopping Dean with a raised hand, "please know that I would not have wanted you to rescue me through further violence."

Dean looked stricken. "But you should have had somebody stand up for you."

"You did. Even if you didn't know it." Cas reflected for a moment. "Do you remember the day we met?"

Chuckling, Dean nodded. "A little, anyway. You were up in that tree by the creek. Just like Jesse, huh?"

"Yes and no," Cas said. "I loved climbing that tree, just like he loved doing it, but I was there for comfort, not adventure. That wasn't my clubhouse, Dean – it was my sanctuary, where nobody could find me. Except you did. The day you found me in that tree, I finally felt like I had a reason to climb down."

"Cas, I have to ask." Dean looked nervous, worried about finally approaching directly what they'd only touched upon so far. Steeling himself to finally discuss what he'd always kept locked away, Cas waited. "That day, when I left. You told me that I'd been trying to force my dreams upon you, not paying attention to what you wanted. Is that really what I was like?" His eyes were clouded with self-doubt and regret, and Cas hated what he'd done to put those feelings there.

"I wasn't being fair. Not to either of us, I think. Maybe I was so worried that I'd end up pulling you down that I wound up setting you up to fail instead. You couldn't have known what I wasn't telling you, but then part of me felt so alone and lost because I wasn't letting you in. You were never anything but open with me, but I didn't afford you that same respect."

"Well," Dean said with a tiny smirk. "I wouldn't say I was _entirely_ open. Cas, you said earlier that you knew how I felt about you back then. That true?"

"I think," Cas said, blushing a little. "But I thought I was imagining it. Even when I came out to you, you were so encouraging, but you never said anything about your own feelings."

"Yeah, well, apparently I didn't need to say it, or even _think_ it, to start feeling and showing it. Would you believe Sam thought we were a secret couple back then?"

Castiel choked on a laugh. "Well, that explains why he kept giving me sorrowful looks every time you talked about your dates. He either thought you were cheating on me, or else that you were putting on such a good show that you might have been hurting me."

Dean laughed as well. "Okay, well, first things first. If we were dating, I would _never_ cheat on you." He smiled warmly and wrapped his hands around Cas's. "If I was ever that lucky, for real, I'd never be dumb enough to throw it away. Not a second time, anyway."

"Well, if _I_ were dating _you_ , I'd never give you a reason to want to stray," Cas teased back. "You'd be nothing but satisfied, and I'd feel like the lucky one, getting to be the one putting that smile on your face."

"I'd patch up your scrapes," Dean argued. "I bet you still can't cut vegetables without needing a bandaid or two."

"I'd read the newspaper to you when you come home exhausted and are still too proud to put on your reading glasses."

"I'd drive you around town in my gorgeous car, and you'd never have to worry about getting your feet cold in the snow."

"I'd teach you yoga. I've been taking lessons at the Y for years now, and it's done amazing things for my flexibility."

Dean arched an eyebrow in interest, but refused to surrender the fight. "I'd take care of you when you're sick. I've paid a lot of money to learn how to do so. No using Doctor Google on my watch."

"I'd bake you fresh pie."

"Oh, come on!" Dean threw up his hands. "That's playing dirty! No way do you actually know how to bake pie!"

"I've learned a lot of things since you left," Cas said smugly.

"Yeah? Well, so have I," Dean said, leaning across the table to brush his lips across Cas's cheek.

Cas blushed crimson, grinning, then suddenly had a flash of insecurity that made his stomach clench. He bit his lip, looking down at the table, and he felt Dean's hands tighten in concern. "Dean," he said slowly, "I'm still not sure about…well, this. Part of me is sitting here, looking at you, and you've got the medical license and the education and probably a tattoo of a caduceus somewhere on your body." Dean laughed and winked but denied nothing; Cas fought down another blush. "But that wasn't all of what you wanted when you left. If you stay…if you and I try…I'm just afraid that we'll be right back to what scared me so much when we were kids. You were meant for more than this place." He ducked his chin, resolutely refusing to lift his gaze.

"Hey." Dean curled forward and lowered his head, tilting his face upward to try to catch Cas's eyes. "I want to make something clear. I came back here because I _wanted_ to be here. I think I'm starting to see what it was I missed back then. It was bigger than just fucked-up family dynamics or emotional constipation." He gestured at himself for that point, grimacing. "What I wanted was to move _toward_ something, something grand. You wanted to move _away_ , to run from something horrible."

"So you're saying that neither of us got what we wanted?" The thought made him ache.

"I'm saying we both are still getting there. I'm saying that geography is only one way of moving. And maybe we've, like, driven on our own mental roads far enough by ourselves at this point, gotten enough of our shit sorted, that we could drive the rest of the way together. And if I keep going here, I'm going to run this metaphor completely into the ground and either be babbling about mind melding or merging brain traffic, so I'll just stop, okay?"

Cas couldn't help but chuckle. "Perhaps it's best that I'm the writer," he teased. "But I think I understand."

\---

"You still haven't convinced me about your reasons for coming back here, specifically," Castiel said as they walked along the downtown sidewalk. Neither of them seemed eager to end what could no longer be described as a "coffee date" with any kind of accuracy. Cas had already called the neighbor he'd asked to sit with his dad, making sure she was okay if he spent a little more time out; she had actually chastised him for asking, arguing that he was foolish to have avoided asking for much help before now. "Your 'unfinished business' aside, you could have gone anywhere. There are plenty of rural programs who would have been thrilled to have you, and as good as your mother's dinners are, home cooking is no basis for a decision like that."

"Really? I think it's been too long since you've had her pot pie, man," Dean said with exaggerated sincerity, making Cas lift a deadpan eyebrow. "Okay, maybe it was another one of those things I've learned since I left. Everybody always talked about how I was meant to be a doctor because I couldn't help taking care of other people, right?"

"You're a natural caretaker, Dean. Nobody who knows you can help but see that."

"Sure, but it took leaving here – leaving my family and my best friend – to make me see that I wasn't really taking care of _me_ . There I was, on my own, and nobody had any kind of reason to care about what _I_ wanted, and I guess I realized that not only did I want to be in a place where I saw my patients as people, I needed to be where they'd see me as a person, too. And I realized that there were things I wanted that were all mine, and that it was okay to want them, even if it felt a little selfish and weird at first."

Snow was beginning to fall lightly around them, and Castiel watched the flakes eddy in the slight breeze. "And what were some of the things you wanted? Just, say, for example." He was hinting shamelessly, he knew, but he still felt unsure enough about where the two of them might be heading that he needed the reassurance of Dean's boldness. When he grasped Castiel's elbow and turned him to face him, Dean wore a determined smile.

"I wanted this," he said, pulling Cas into a tight embrace, hands spread against his upper and lower back. Cas felt Dean nuzzle his face into his hair, exhaling against his temple. "And I wanted this," he murmured, pressing his lips against the hinge of Cas's jaw, trailing kisses along his cheekbone until he had almost reached his mouth, where he paused and pulled away slightly to lock eyes.

"I wanted to see your blue eyes again. I missed them like you wouldn't believe, even before I admitted why that was." He leaned forward again, and Cas closed his eyelids to allow Dean to place gentle kisses on each of them.

"And I wanted to hear your voice," Dean said, moving one hand up along Cas's neck to comb softly through his hair. "God, that voice. Even when you were pissed and shouting, I still wanted to hear more of it. Sometimes I teased you just to make you get all growly. Love it."

"Dean," Cas sighed, feeling positively hypnotized.

"Yeah, there it is," Dean breathed. "And…and I wanted…" He lifted Cas's chin, waiting for him to open his eyes and meet his own. "Cas, please." He hovered, waiting to see understanding and approval before he would close the final inches between their lips.

Cas had no such self-control.

The kiss, as Cas launched forward and took what he'd never thought he could actually have, felt like coming home, perhaps. Until that moment, Cas would have been hard-pressed to say that he had ever had a "home." Dean's arms were refuge and unconditional acceptance; the heat of Dean's body pressed against his was contentment and safety. Dean's lips met his with an eagerness that spoke of a need for _him_ , for _his_ presence. Cas had never felt so wanted, so desired, so…loved.

If the snow got a little deeper on the ground around their feet, dampening their socks, they could be forgiven for not noticing. And if, later that night, an unfamiliar car remained parked in front of the Novak house until very late, the neighbors were too polite to mention it, other than one curious comment about whether Castiel's father had taken a turn for the worse, needing Doctor Winchester to stay. Everyone else who saw Dean and Cas together, the next day or over the course of the many that followed, knew better.

After all, those two boys were inseparable. Especially once, a year later, they wore the rings to prove it.

 


	6. As I stand once more with loved ones On those West Virginia hills

_ Epilogue _

May 25, 2017

"C'mon, it's right up here."

Dean huffed for a moment, bracing his hands on his knees before stumbling along, following the sounds of the boy's voice. He remembered these branches as being higher, not low-hanging boobytraps that he had to keep ducking or pushing out of the way. The woods themselves had not grown any smaller, evidenced by how tired he was getting and how he felt as though he'd been hiking for miles, but the trees themselves weren't the giants of his memories.

"You coming?"

"Right behind you." He had no choice but to keep going.  _ Mom and Dad must have been insane, _ he decided.  _ Did they seriously just let us basically live in the forest, with no supervision? How did we not get lost at least once a week? _ As quickly as the thought ran through his head, he chuckled at himself.  _ Getting old, Winchester _ .

He finally felt the ground dip slightly at his toes and become slightly squelchy, the first clue that he was approaching the small creek Jesse had described. Slowing down, he scanned the woods around him thoughtfully. After a moment, he heard a muffled giggle; turning his head in that direction, he caught the barest glimpse of a sneaker dangling between the leaves of a tree on the other side of the trickling water. "Gotcha," he muttered, smirking.

The creek was narrow enough that a single, well-placed flat rock in the center was all he needed to get to the other side with his feet dry. Crossing, he made his way to the tree and looked up. For a moment, his heart stuttered; the scene was so reminiscent of the first time he'd met Cas that he could hardly stand it. On the other hand, though, Jesse was grinning wickedly, his cheeks flushed with health. He wasn't hiding from a threat; he was happily in his element. The contrast was bittersweet.

"This is my lookout tower," Jesse said. "You can come in if you want. Can you climb?" He scrambled up to stand on the branch, then pulled himself up to the next.

"Can I climb?" Dean scoffed. Rubbing his hands together briskly, he grabbed a limb and hoisted himself up. Years of exploring the woods had given him the experience to determine when a branch was strong enough to support his weight, so he wasn't worried that he was too heavy now. Jesse's "tower" was well-chosen. 

Jesse climbed higher, and Dean followed. It was a mature enough oak that they were quite high by the time the branches started getting too narrow to trust, and they had a good view over the treeline. Looking outward, Dean could see their house, yard backing onto the woods. Figures were moving about the yard; details were obscured by the distance, but he could easily pick out Cas, sitting in the swing he'd hung from the crabapple tree by the porch. Other people were lounging around the rickety picnic table, no longer groaning under the weight of the lunch they'd consumed.

Jesse was sitting on a branch again, kicking his feet and gazing downward. "I miss here," he said. "Morgantown has woods, but they're not as good. Mama took me to the arborit...aribori…" He scowled. Dean, having learned from experience how to handle these bright country kids, waited patiently instead of jumping in to help. "The tree park. What's it called?"

"Arboretum."

"Arboretum. Anyway, it's okay, but you're not allowed to climb. I got yelled at. Stupid rules."

Dean chuckled, picturing it. "I bet you're glad to be back here visiting, then."

"Yeah," agreed Jesse. "And Mama says when we live in Charleston, it's real close to home, so we can come see Cas all the time. And you, too," he added as a gracious afterthought.

Dean would never have imagined the thought of seeing Meg on a regular basis would be something he'd appreciate. Things had definitely changed.  _ They _ had changed. He knew he was a better person than he had been when he was younger. Meg...it was unfair to say that time had improved her. What time had really done was remove her from the things that were hurting her, the things he'd been too blind to see. Cas had been her miracle, and in return, she'd been there for Cas when Dean hadn't. For that alone, Dean was willing to forgive every snarky remark she'd ever made at his expense.

"We'll be happy to see you guys," Dean said to Jesse, sincere warmth in the invitation. "Somebody's got to keep me on my tree-climbing game."

"Well, we can't come that often," Jesse replied solemnly. "You need a kid here."

Laughing, Dean shook his head. "Should I start asking for climbing partners when I do check-ups? Lots of boys and girls won't want to climb with the 'dumb ol' doctor' who pokes them with needles."

"You need your  _ own _ kid," Jesse said in exasperation. "Mama said that, too."

Swallowing his laugh, Dean eyed the boy. "Did she?"

"Yep. I'm not supposed to say anything to Cas about it. Mama said, 'He's a smart guy, he'll figure it out.' But she didn't say not to tell you." The way Jesse was narrowing his eyes pointedly, it was obvious he knew the loophole was unintended and that Dean's inclusion in the gag order had been intended to be implicit.

"Well. She's not wrong. Cas is a really smart person." Dean wondered what was appropriate to say to the precocious ten-year-old on the subject. "He likes to take his time with things, but it always ends up better that way, right?"

"Okay, but you shouldn't take too long. Otherwise you'll be too old to climb."

"Hey!" Dean ducked as Jesse threw a twig at his hair, then followed as the boy started to swing back down the tree, lighting on branches with careless grace.

\---

"He's an awesome kid," Dean whispered in Cas's ear that evening. Cas was reclining in his lap, head tipped back against Dean's shoulder, while they watched the bonfire send sparks heavenward. "I know there's none of you  _ actually _ in him, but there's plenty of you in his spirit."

"Couldn't be helped," Cas murmured, smiling gently. Sam, visiting from Pittsburgh, was helping Jesse pull a carbonized marshmallow off his stick; his wife, Sarah, was stroking her gently rounded abdomen while watching with fond eyes.

Without taking his gaze away from the scene before them, Dean ducked his head to run his lips along Cas's neck. With a soft exhale, Cas tilted his head further to the side to encourage him to continue; Dean was happy to oblige, lacing their fingers together across his husband's chest.

"Apparently," he said between kisses, "Jesse thinks we need a kid of our own around here."

"Really." Cas pressed backwards slightly into Dean's embrace, eyes almost closed but fluttering open when he spoke.

"Mmm-hmm. It's been the subject of discussion, from what I understand."

"Well, I can't imagine where he'd get such an idea."

"Hmmm." Dean stroked the back of Cas's hand with his thumb, happy butterflies stirring in his stomach as he thought about the envelope with the signed application to become foster parents sitting on their counter, waiting to be filed on Monday.

"It'll be hard to see him leave to go back home again," Cas said. "It's always hard, even with email and letters." His voice held a touch of melancholy, of anxiousness. It had taken a very long time for Dean to convince Castiel that he was staying; Cas still occasionally wrestled with insecurity about being left behind again. Dean was committed to reassuring him as much as he needed.

"I know," agreed Dean. "You don't really get used to it, all the goodbyes. Everybody heading out all over the place. But you know what? Jesse called this 'home.' And partly it's the woods--I swear, I've never seen anybody climb so much like a damn monkey before." Cas laughed at the idea. "But mostly it's you. Us. We're 'home.' He'll keep coming back, just like I did, so long as that's true."

"I'm not going anywhere."

"Not without me, anyway," Dean murmured. The shadows cast by the fire hid their faces as Cas turned into the kiss, but it wouldn't have mattered if they were in broad daylight. Nothing was disturbing them anymore.

**Author's Note:**

> Come find me on [Tumblr](http://carrieosity.tumblr.com).


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